Forgotten
by AntipodeanOpaleye
Summary: The memory of what transpired that night will burn in his mind forevermore… Alternate Ending for 'Proof of Purchase


**Title:** Forgotten

**Author:** AntipodeanOpaleye

**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary:** The memory of what transpired that night will burn in his mind forevermore… (Alternate Ending for 'Proof of Purchase')

**Disclaimer:** Everything you recognize from any other source either doesn't belong to me or is a purely coincidental occurrence. Anything that you've never seen probably belongs to me. I write for enjoyment and no copyright infringement is intended.

**A/N:** Umm… hi. It's been forever since I showed up here, hasn't it? Some of you may remember me, most of you probably won't, but no matter. It's nice to be back. I wrote this for The Broken World's Fanficiton and Art Awards a while back (visit the lovely site at ) and I figured I'd post it here. I do hope you all like it, at least a little. It's rather off the wall, I'll admit that, but it is the first thing that came to mind from the prompt, which I believe was 'the memory burns.' And I sort of liked the direction it went. In so, I hope that you will as well.

By the way, if anyone was wondering, I did add the '21' to my penname; not only did my original get taken a while back… but I felt like adding a little something to the end. :D

Please read and review; I'll adore you and/or give you virtual brownies. ;)

AO

** _Forgotten _**

"Forget it. Forget her."

"Forget? How can I forget?"

"It's easy. You simply instruct your conscious mind to erase all memory and cognitive recognition of her in any situation, and your subconscious mind will consequently be unable to form any lasting image or remembrance of this woman."

"It can't be that simple."

"But it is, 494, it is. She isn't worth all of this groveling. You're better than this, 494; you're not meant to be reduced to this pathetic, sniveling creature that I see in front of me."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I said. The soldier, the killer, the animal you were bred to be; it can't be stifled by the primitive boundaries of the ordinary mind; of a suburban lifestyle in this post-apocalyptic hellhole. You're above this."

It was a display of pure manipulation. Nothing more.

He had to continue to remind himself of this simplistic fact as he stared at the transgenic that was now sitting in front of him. He loathed the defiled beasts with a ruthless passion, and nothing would change that. Except perhaps this particular magnificent specimen.

As of late, they'd utilized and often exhausted every resource at their disposal in a tireless effort to take down the illustrious 452, an enigmatic beauty whose DNA strands were impeccable and whose fiery disposition was both a blessing and a curse for her would-be captors.

But, as the saying went, genetics aren't everything.

Perhaps that really wasn't how the saying went, but that was of little importance.

452 was useful, beneficial even, in one state and one state only: death. Her behavior was intolerable, her discipline corrupted with the false notions of freedom and self-determination. The concept of choice had poisoned her once acquiescent and analytical mind to the point of no return.

It hadn't truly occurred to him until it was too late for his initial interference that perhaps it would be an efficient move strategically, to simply have let nature take its course. To let the unsuppressed animal rise to the forefront, to take what was rightfully his, and show his worth. His raw, feral value. Skill, desire, and bloodlust; all in such overwhelming amounts that even the most flawless DNA patterns would be no match for it.

It was upon meeting 494 for the first time that he suddenly lost his fervor in the pursuit 452. No, his thought process had become radically altered, and he was now intent upon finding the epitome of what the despised enemy that was his father's institution, what Manticore, had come to expect in their finest troops. For it was one thing to have the potential to become great.

And it was another thing entirely to utilize that potential, and exist in unsurpassable eminence.

And so the idea had formed, as he had contemplated the bargain 494 had lain before him; allow the transgenic to walk free in exchange for the lives of three transgenics. It was an egotistical, self-serving ploy, and 494 had played well the part of the arrogantly conniving deceiver; a professional manipulator that was flawless in his craft.

However, he was not a fool, and could easily see beyond the act that 494 so convincingly put forth. He sensed the fear, the uncertainty, the confusion, and the betrayal that laced his being below the surface, and in detecting such feelings he promptly banked upon their validity as he made his next move. Planting the small explosive near the transgenic's brainstem was precautionary, simply in case his hunch was misguided, on the off chance that he was wrong.

It was a rare occurrence that he was wrong.

As he had voiced aloud shortly after 494 had gone off on his merry way, this particular situation had the makings of a very intriguing experiment. He knew quite well that 494 was lying about 452, but it was truthful that the assumption that the enemy was lying often prolonged the life of the person in question. As for 452's barcode, he could only hope.

But he was cunning, and he manipulated the situations at hand. He knew 494 wouldn't be able to make the kills straight off; the conscience that had been instilled within him, regardless of how undeveloped in might be, was still existent, and in so would more than likely inhibit his ability to kill indiscriminately. And so, when 494 came in to plead for an extension, he was firm, demanding, and when he confronted 494 with the knowledge that he'd only made a single kill in comparison to his pair of barcodes, he was satisfied to see the self-loathing that brimmed within the X5s eyes as the soldier remembered what duty, what failure, what responsibility and command had once meant to him; the value that 494 had placed within the concepts of mission and loyalty, respect and obedience, what they had inspired within the transgenic not so long ago. With that, he knew he had awoken the killer within the creature before him. And if he played his cards right, the benefits of this endeavor would stretch far beyond that individual night.

After that, he could only wait; wait, and discover whether or not his silent contrivance had come to fruition.

And well was he rewarded for his patience when the evening came to its close.

"But I… I killed her."

"You're an assassin, 494. It's what you do," his tone was casual, yet caustic, as he unwaveringly stated the fact as if he were commenting on something as inconsequential as the weather, or whether the Yankees would take the World Series that year. A malicious smile crept up and settled onto his features as he continued. "It's just that now that you've proven yourself capable, you're going to be doing it for me."

494 nodded obediently, slightly confused, but perceptibly relieved at the same time. "Yes, sir."

"Enough people call me sir, 494. It makes me feel confined by the disgusting boundaries of this petty realm of humanity. Let's try something with a slightly more impressive ring, shall we? I think Ames will do nicely." And it would; he'd always enjoyed the sound of his name, yet not when it was being barked with disgust from his superiors. Perhaps now he'd have the opportunity to hear it uttered with unfailing respect.

Ames White looked on with sadistic pleasure as he watched the X5 stroke his thumb methodically over the rectangular strip of bloodstained flesh that he held in his hands, nodding once again in acquiescence. He set the small card that bore the skin onto a nearby table, and stared straight ahead, as was customary in the presence of authority.

As the falsetto NSA agent elevated his gaze to study the eyes of the transgenic, he was intrigued to find that the deep, pooling orbs of the genetically enhanced soldier read like a book, viewed like a motion picture, and played continuously, like a broken record. Curiously, he watched, waiting patiently as the story began to unfold.

He could see the physical pain displayed in her movements as 494 pinned her mercilessly to the ground.

He could feel the burning sensation in the transgenic's chest as his breathing became heavier and consistently more erratic.

He could sense the misplaced debate within the born killer; between his newfound rectitude; a sense of morality based upon the standards of society, and the heartless manslayer who knew nothing different than murder in cold-blood.

He tasted the adrenaline as it surged through the soldier's veins, spilling into his mouth as he bit his lip and furiously plunged the knife into the trembling woman beneath him.

He could hear her final whimper of excruciating agony as her pulse slowed into nonexistence, the blood flow ceasing shortly thereafter, and her body stilling with her long-impending demise.

Something began to change in 494's eyes as the short film came to it's close; a maniacal longing to take life, to feel the struggle of another living being beneath his hands, under his blade, or at his gunpoint, and the satisfying termination of that opposition, at a point in time that _he_ determined. It was a rush, a high, and the only drug that provided it was the swift, clean, precise nature of murder. 494 was a heavy user, a true addict.

The memory of her was fresh in his mind. It was obvious any doubts he had had about the kill had swiftly disintegrated into oblivion, and that now he was reveling only in the euphoric experience of the after-shock.

The memory of her was something that the soldier before him would be unable rid himself of.

With every massacre he executed as he attempted to quench his thirst for the insanely barbaric feel of the chase, and finally, the capture, the memory of this woman would burn in the back of his mind, and he would never be satisfied.

The memory would continue to burn, and it would drive him to continue until its flame was extinguished.

"Go, 494. You just head on home for tonight. We'll be in touch," White finished with a pointed tap to the back of his neck, and the wordless warning was well taken by the transgenic as he walked silently out of view, melding into the shadows, his footsteps ringing back long after he had exited.

Ames White watched as the small, glowing numerical display on the remote in his hands methodically moved backwards, rapidly reaching a close in the countdown.

He applied the required pressure upon the small touch pad underneath the numbers as the reached one, stopping a small technological device from blowing a very valuable, very allegiant man's brains out of his head. Literally.

He let the control slip from his hands and to the floor, where it shattered into numerous strangely shaped, jagged little pieces. The glass and wires clanged to the ground, the sound resonating in the silent and now nearby empty chamber. He had no intention of killing 494. Not any more, at least.

He crossed the room in an instant, and looked down at the band of skin that was attached to the rectangular paper that had been abandoned on the table. It was mangled and ensanguined, and the left side was somewhat difficult to make out. It appeared to be two consecutive 3's, followed by what was either a 6 or a 2, then a 9, a large, opaque smear of blood, followed by a rugged 7 and a 3. Or perhaps it was an 8. But the digits that mattered were clear, and it made him laugh sardonically as he ran his long fingers over them, proving their authenticity.

452.

Proof of Purchase, indeed.


End file.
